


take my hand, take my whole life too

by owleyes



Category: One Direction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owleyes/pseuds/owleyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he doesn’t want to get up, to have to go through an entire day in the light and in the open before they can come back to this. but then harry eases back into consciousness, his lips curling into a smile when his eyes focus enough to see the figure cuddled into him.</p><p>or -</p><p>five drabbles based off of prompts. they're not really connected. all harry/louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my hand, take my whole life too

**Author's Note:**

> my first time posting on ao3, although certainly not my first time writing fanfiction. all feedback is appreciated.  
> title from 'can't help falling in love' by elvis presley.
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own anything.

 

**one. light.**

louis wakes with his face pressed against a familiar neck, a body curled against his, an arm slung across his waist. he lays there and refuses to open his eyes, to acknowledge that he’s awake.

everything is so much simpler in the dark, when shapes and colours blend together and the line between friends and lovers is easier to cross. words are exchanged, soft exhales against bare skin, the truth dripping like honey from their tongues, kisses gentle and loving. and it hurts, it really does.

eventually, he breathes out, and his eyes flutter open. harry is still asleep, his features soft and open, sunlight casting rays across his skin. louis thinks he’s never looked more beautiful.

he doesn’t want to get up, to have to go through an entire day in the light and in the open before they can come back to this. but then harry eases back into consciousness, his lips curling into a smile when his eyes focus enough to see the figure cuddled into him.

and harry’s always been his light, always been his anchor in the storm. and louis thinks that maybe everything will be okay.

 

**two. fly.**

“i’ve always wanted to fly,” he says, and it’s a casual comment.

they’re watching a nature documentary about owls, tangled together on the couch in their apartment.

“yeah?” harry asks, but he clings tighter anyway, securing their limbs.

louis thinks of all those times where the pressure became too much, where he could never live up to what they had built him to be, where he wasn’t good enough for their expectations. he thinks of all the times his toes curled over the edge, and he stared down, his body swaying from one-too-many pills and the weight of the situation he had managed to get himself in. he thinks of all his broken promises and coated lies, of how when he’s up there, he feels like he’s the king of the world. he thinks of how easy it would be, to just let go.

he nods, his hair brushing against harry’s jaw and closes his eyes.

 _i’ve always wanted to fly,_ he thinks. he nestles down into harry’s hold, and he thinks, _maybe next time._

 

**three. ice.**

“you’re always so fucking cold,” he says, and then regrets it when the other boy tenses up. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” louis croaks, but pulls closer into himself, his arm wrapping around his knees.

they leave it there, because nothing more can be said. harry doesn’t remember until a few days later, when they’re curled up in bed, their eyes the only things alive in the blackness of the room.

“it’s because i have a cold heart,” louis says, his voice flat and monotone, as if he’s stating a fact of life. “my heart’s cold as ice, haz, and it spreads outwards. it flows through my veins and makes me cold. i can’t love anyone. my heart’s too cold to love.”

harry swallows at the words. once. twice. it still feels like he’s choking on glass.

“okay,” he says, turning away, and he can already feel the coldness seeping around his own heart as it slowly shatters. _but i love you,_ he thinks. “okay.”

 

**four. silence.**

“hi, i’m louis,” he said, and smiled, his hand lifting quickly for a sort-of-wave.

the boy looked up at him from the cafe table, his eyes large and green and he smiled slowly back. _i’m harry,_ he wrote, his letters jagged and leaning slightly to the right.

louis rose an eyebrow in question, and took the chair that the boy, harry, offered. harry bent over the whiteboard again, his fingers clutching the blue marker and his curly hair nearly touching the tabletop. _i’m mute._

“really?” louis asked, slightly awed. “i’ve never met a mute person before.”

harry nodded, his lips quirking into a soft smile.

“so, um. what do you like to do?” he didn’t know what to say, never having had a one-sided conversation before.

harry held up the whiteboard, taking a sip of the coffee clasped in his other hand. _i like to listen._

louis grinned. this was going to be a wonderful friendship.

 

**five. want.**

harry struts and pivots and growls into the microphone, his face layered with make-up and sweat, his whole aura glowing with adrenaline. he winks at the hundreds of girls in front of them and smiles when they scream back at him, as if he’s unaware of their love, at the way they claw at each other to get closer to him, _just a little closer._

harry taps his feet, flicks his hair, rolls his hip. he belts out the notes, wobbling and wavering and driving the crowd wild. he pulls funny faces and he prances back and forth. he’s on stage with four of his best friends in the world, and he still outshines them all. harry performs.

louis doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his entire life.

it’s a burn, a deep _need_ in his gut, his mouth slack and his thoughts running rampant with desire. it fills him up, oozes from his pores, grounds him down and it _hurts._

louis wants when harry presses close to his side on stage, when he belts out the lyrics to their latest song, when he meets his eyes across the stage. he wants when they’re all relaxing on the bus, harry dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a ratty shirt, his hair mussed up from sleep. he wants when harry is being childish and immature and driving everyone up the wall, and when he’s deep and serious and is talking with louis about musicians and authors and the world’s great leaders at 3am, their voices hushed as they sip hot chocolate, cuddled close in the lounge.

harry goes out, and every time he comes back, there’s always a girl with long hair and long legs and she’s always gone by the morning. it hurts, everything hurts, but louis tries not to think about it. he’s too distracted by the want, the need, and the fact that he never gets what he wants.

harry corners him after a show one time, presses him against a wall and kisses him. it’s over too quickly, and harry stares at him for a long time afterwards, before heading off back to the bus, leaving louis standing in the too-empty corridor, breath catching on every inhale.

he thinks maybe something has changed. maybe it meant something. maybe they feel the same.

and yet the stream of girls never stop, and louis tries to swallow his want and contents himself with only watching.

 

*


End file.
